Prince of Darkness – Salem, Massachusetts
Wednesday leads Shadow up a dirt track where on one side they pass a series of decommissioned plantations that have been renovated into modest homesteads and on the opposite side is Salem Harbour where alongside the a row of piers and narrow docks are a lineup of commercial fishing boats and watercraft belonging to the Massachusetts branch of the United States coast guard.
Despite the engrossing beauty of Salem Harbour, Shadow's attention is focused on the empty fields. Shadow couldn't help but envision the harsh conditions his ancestors were once subjected to where merely three centuries prior they had toiled these very same fields that appear to be a hollow shell of what they were during the days of the American frontier. Where fields of wheat, tobacco, and barley once flourished; now lay fields of knee high grass that are beginning to wilt in the late afternoon sun.
They eventually arrive at a sprawling farmhouse where on the front porch sits a tall, slender figure who appears to be entering his golden years. He sits on his rocking chair with a glass of brandy in one hand and a fat Cuban cigar in the other. He observes his visitors closely with a pair of cold, grey eyes that are as steely grey as his slick back hair and his neatly trimmed beard. But what makes his appear abnormal in contrast to the more coastal fashion of the locals is his black tailored suit and leather shoes ensemble that he wears with pride.
With a puff of his cigar, the figure gets to his feet and descends the wooden stairs that leads away from his front porch where he gives a jubilant Wednesday a brotherly embrace.
"After all these millennia it's good to see you old friend." Chanted Wednesday.
"You as well." Said the figure.
"I don't suppose you're still on speaking terms with the man upstairs?"
"Why do I need spend all of eternity on a cloud or underground when I have my own piece of heaven here in Salem, Massechusetts."
In his mind's eye, Shadow deliberates what's being said between Wednesday and the mysterious figure. Within the three minutes that he's bear witness to their interaction, he has already drawn a conclusion as to who this man is but decided to stay silent for fear of losing face in front of Wednesday.
"Where were you in 1692, Wednesday?" the figure enquired. "It was a glorious time to be me. It's too bad that gullibility only lasted a year."
"This is America old friend, why don't you relocate?"
"And live in the company of those skeptical atheists?"
"Who erect an altar and praise your name."
The figure takes a gigantic puff on his cigar.
"The dark days where the mere mention of my name struck fear into the hearts of mortals are a long time ago. Now I'm thought of as just the commercialisation of fast food, horror films, and heavy metal music. This is why I have chosen to stay after three centuries of inhabiting this place. You call it nostalgia, I call it keeping myself grounded."
"Then I have a proposition, that I'm sure you'll find interesting."
Shadow grows impatient. He abruptly clears his throat.
Wednesday spins around to face Shadow, as if he's been brought out of a hypnotic daze.
"Where are my manners?" Wednesday asked. "This is my bodyguard and associate, Shadow Moon. "Shadow Moon, meet a man who goes by a variety of names: Lucifer, Beezlebub, El-Diablo, and Prince of Darkness."
The figure shakes hands with Shadow.
"Otherwise known as Satan, or the man downstairs. As mere mortals are accustomed to now days." With his cigar perched between his teeth, the figure releases an obnoxious grin that would intimidate anyone else who didn't make his acquaintance.
Shadow rubs his hands together with glee. He appears to be over satisfied. "I knew it. I fucking knew it!"
Wednesday shifts uncomfortably, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. "I'll make sure that he's on his best behaviour for the duration of our visit."
The figure gives a curt, but approving nod before he leads Wednesday up the porch steps and into his home.